The Task and Other Poems [24]
he pinches from the second stalk A pimple, that portends a future sprout, And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish, Prolific all, and harbingers of more. The crowded roots demand enlargement now And transplantation in an ampler space. Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers, Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit. These have their sexes, and when summer shines The bee transports the fertilising meal From flower to flower, and even the breathing air Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use. Not so when winter scowls. Assistant art Then acts in nature's office, brings to pass The glad espousals and insures the crop.
Grudge not, ye rich (since luxury must have His dainties, and the world's more numerous half Lives by contriving delicates for you), Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares, The vigilance, the labour, and the skill That day and night are exercised, and hang Upon the ticklish balance of suspense, That ye may garnish your profuse regales With summer fruits, brought forth by wintry suns. Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart The process. Heat and cold, and wind and steam, Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming flies Minute as dust and numberless, oft work Dire disappointment that admits no cure, And which no care can obviate. It were long, Too long to tell the expedients and the shifts Which he, that fights a season so severe, Devises, while he guards his tender trust, And oft, at last, in vain. The learned and wise Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song Cold as its theme, and, like its theme, the fruit Of too much labour, worthless when produced.
Who loves a garden, loves a greenhouse too. Unconscious of a less propitious clime There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug, While the winds whistle and the snows descend. The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf Shines there and flourishes. The golden boast Of Portugal and Western India there, The ruddier orange and the paler lime, Peep through their polished foliage at the storm, And seem to smile at what they need not fear. The amomum there with intermingling flowers And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts Her crimson honours, and the spangled beau, Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long, All plants, of every leaf, that can endure The winter's frown if screened from his shrewd bite, Live there and prosper. Those Ausonia claims, Levantine regions these; the Azores send Their jessamine; her jessamine remote Caffraria: foreigners from many lands, They form one social shade, as if convened By magic summons of the Orphean lyre. Yet such arrangement, rarely brought to pass But by a master's hand, disposing well The gay diversities of leaf and flower, Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms, And dress the regular yet various scene. Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome, A noble show, while Roscius trod the stage; And so, while Garrick, as renowned as he, The sons of Albion, fearing each to lose Some note of Nature's music from his lips, And covetous of Shakespeare's beauty, seen In every flash of his far-beaming eye. Nor taste alone and well-contrived display Suffice to give the marshalled ranks the grace Of their complete effect. Much yet remains Unsung, and many cares are yet behind And more laborious; cares on which depends Their vigour, injured soon, not soon restored. The soil must be renewed, which often washed Loses its treasure of salubrious salts, And disappoints the roots; the slender roots, Close interwoven where they meet the vase, Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch Must fly before the knife; the withered leaf Must be detached, and where it strews the floor Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else Contagion, and disseminating death. Discharge but these kind offices (and who Would spare, that loves them, offices like these?) Well they reward the toil. The
Grudge not, ye rich (since luxury must have His dainties, and the world's more numerous half Lives by contriving delicates for you), Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares, The vigilance, the labour, and the skill That day and night are exercised, and hang Upon the ticklish balance of suspense, That ye may garnish your profuse regales With summer fruits, brought forth by wintry suns. Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart The process. Heat and cold, and wind and steam, Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming flies Minute as dust and numberless, oft work Dire disappointment that admits no cure, And which no care can obviate. It were long, Too long to tell the expedients and the shifts Which he, that fights a season so severe, Devises, while he guards his tender trust, And oft, at last, in vain. The learned and wise Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song Cold as its theme, and, like its theme, the fruit Of too much labour, worthless when produced.
Who loves a garden, loves a greenhouse too. Unconscious of a less propitious clime There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug, While the winds whistle and the snows descend. The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf Shines there and flourishes. The golden boast Of Portugal and Western India there, The ruddier orange and the paler lime, Peep through their polished foliage at the storm, And seem to smile at what they need not fear. The amomum there with intermingling flowers And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts Her crimson honours, and the spangled beau, Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long, All plants, of every leaf, that can endure The winter's frown if screened from his shrewd bite, Live there and prosper. Those Ausonia claims, Levantine regions these; the Azores send Their jessamine; her jessamine remote Caffraria: foreigners from many lands, They form one social shade, as if convened By magic summons of the Orphean lyre. Yet such arrangement, rarely brought to pass But by a master's hand, disposing well The gay diversities of leaf and flower, Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms, And dress the regular yet various scene. Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome, A noble show, while Roscius trod the stage; And so, while Garrick, as renowned as he, The sons of Albion, fearing each to lose Some note of Nature's music from his lips, And covetous of Shakespeare's beauty, seen In every flash of his far-beaming eye. Nor taste alone and well-contrived display Suffice to give the marshalled ranks the grace Of their complete effect. Much yet remains Unsung, and many cares are yet behind And more laborious; cares on which depends Their vigour, injured soon, not soon restored. The soil must be renewed, which often washed Loses its treasure of salubrious salts, And disappoints the roots; the slender roots, Close interwoven where they meet the vase, Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch Must fly before the knife; the withered leaf Must be detached, and where it strews the floor Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else Contagion, and disseminating death. Discharge but these kind offices (and who Would spare, that loves them, offices like these?) Well they reward the toil. The